-Guest Post by Alex Howson
Step outside right now and you’ll feel it: the air is cool but the wind has changed. It’s fresh and almost energizing instead of the battering gusts of deep winter. Like something with direction. The ground, soaked from weeks of rain, releases the scent of cedar. And the light is different. At 5p.m., the sky holds on a little longer than it did a month ago.
Something is shifting. But nothing has quite arrived.
The Celts had a word for this moment. They called it Imbolc, from the Old Irish i mbolg—meaning “in the belly.” Celebrated around the first of February, Imbolc marked the earliest quickening of spring: life stirring beneath the surface, invisible but real. Not yet a bud. Not yet a bloom. Just the faintest pulse of something coming.
That’s February in the Snoqualmie Valley. A quickening you can feel but can’t quite name.
Feeling stuck?
If something is stirring, though, why do so many of us feel stuck?
The light is returning, but the weather hasn’t relented. The rain keeps coming and we’ve seen a second wind for winter, with colder temperatures and snow on the Pass. The days are longer, but they don’t always feel lighter.
You might notice yourself pull toward energy and action, but then almost immediately want to crawl back under a blanket.
This in-between has a scientific name too: liminality—from the Latin limen, meaning threshold, or the space between what was and what’s next. It’s a disorienting space because our minds crave resolution: winter or spring, resting or doing, dark or light.
But February won’t cooperate. It holds you on the threshold and asks you to stay.
Even our valley’s cultural life reflects this in-between quality. Think of Real Twin Peaks festival participants who wander between fog, firs, and film locations—walking through one world while seeing another layered over it. And that in-between tension can feel physical too. Your nervous system is caught between two gears, with the winter impulse to conserve energy and the spring impulse to mobilize.
But you’re not stuck. You’re recalibrating.
The courage of not yet
February asks something different from the deep rest of December or the quiet rituals of January. It asks you to stay with the not-yet and to let things quicken on their own schedule. To feel the pull of spring and still honor your need for rest. To notice the light returning and not rush to meet it. To trust that what’s stirring in the belly will, in time, find its way out.
A threshold walk
This month, try a walk that isn’t about exercise or getting anywhere. Walk part of the Snoqualmie Valley Trail or the paths near Snoqualmie Falls, and let your walk be a practice of noticing what’s between seasons.
Leave your earbuds at home. Walk slowly. Look for what’s almost—almost spring, almost green, almost warm. Notice the angle of light through the trees, the bud tips on bare branches, the cedar scent rising from wet earth. Listen to the river. Listen to the wind in the tree canopy.
You’re not looking for spring. You’re looking for the threshold. Training your attention this way is a practice of patience that teaches you to notice change before it announces itself.
Breathing with the wind
Instead of bracing against the wind, try working with it. Step outside and stand still for a moment. Feel the wind on your face as contact with the season instead of an inconvenience or a relentless companion. When it gusts, let your exhale go with it. Imagine the wind carrying something you’ve been holding—tension, impatience, the need to know what’s next.
Three breaths. That’s enough to let the season move through you instead of just around you.
Katherine May’s Enchantment is a beautiful companion for this kind of seasonal attention, helping us to relearn how to notice what’s already here.
Trust the quickening
In the belly of February, things are happening that you can’t see yet. The cedar knows it. The river knows it. The light that lingers a little longer each evening knows it.
So step outside, feel the wind, and let February be exactly what it is: a threshold, a quickening, a slow and patient almost.
-Snoqualmie-based medical writer and yoga teacher Alex Howson, PhD, draws on decades of experience in health education, medical writing, and yoga. Alex explores practical, evidence-based ways to support physical, emotional, and mental well-being through the many seasons of life. Each column blends accessible science, grounded storytelling, and simple tools for building steadiness, resilience, and long-term health in a changing world. You can find Alex on Facebook, Instagram, Linked In and on her website https://www.alexhowson.com/.
[Featured Image by Canva]
